


Keen-edged

by glim



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-09 20:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12895737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: Towel, shaving soap, straight edge razor: Steve lays them all out, nice and neat, ordered.





	Keen-edged

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon prompt on tumblr that requested Stucky (with skinny!Steve) and shaving kink.

“You need a haircut,” Steve says, and touches the small of Bucky’s back as he stands next to Bucky in front of the bathroom mirror. “And you really, really need a shave.”

Bucky makes a non-committal sound. He’s used to the long hair now, used to the way it shadows his eyes and offers him a quiet respite from the way people look at him: wary, uncertain, scared. They try to avoid his eyes; it’s easier if he avoids theirs first.

“You’re one to talk,” he mutters.

Steve shrugs. His hair’s a messy fall of dark-gold blond now that the summer sun highlights are faded and he’s grown out the short cut he got back in June. His eyes glance up at Bucky in the mirror, sharp at first, then slow, from beneath his lashes when he notices Bucky looking at his face.

He’s clean shaven, two day’s worth of blond stubble gone from his chin, dressed in a white tee shirt and jeans, barefoot, pointed shoulder blades and flared collarbones visible through the thin material and vee neck of his shirt.

Too sharp, Bucky thinks, too sharp for the gold of his hair, for the way it falls into his eyes, the way it trails, soft and fine, from his navel to his groin.

Steve raises an eyebrow at him in the mirror and gives a small _ah_ at the expression on Bucky’s face.

“Let me do it for you,” he murmurs. His elbow, quick and sudden, digs into Bucky’s side and he nudges Bucky away, just enough that he can wash his hands and take out his contact lenses. “Go on, sit. I’ll be right back.” 

Steve’s hand rests at the small of Bucky’s back for another few seconds, long enough to warm his bare, shower-damp skin, before Steve slips away and the warmth is gone. Bucky gives a shiver, lets the sensation run up and down his spine, and lets himself have that: the shivering anticipation, the sudden sense of longing.

When Steve returns, he’s still in his jeans and tee shirt, but with his glasses instead of his contacts; he gives a nod of approval when he finds Bucky sitting on the closed toilet lid, towel wrapped around his waist, wet hair pulled back off his face. He glances down at his own clothes, and a little, muttered _okay_ is all his says before tugging the shirt up by the hem and off over his head.

Towel, shaving soap, straight edge razor: Steve lays them all out, nice and neat, ordered.

He touches Bucky’s face before he sits, and there, yes, Bucky can feel it in the brush of his fingertips: full of care. Too much, almost, and Bucky tips his head back and closes his eyes when Steve’s thumb edges his jawline.

“Seriously, you really need a shave. How long were you out there for this time? Two weeks?” Steve’s voice dips really low and his hands frame Bucky’s face. “Let me take care of you.”

Steve doesn’t ask: _Did you eat? Did you sleep? Did you stay safe? Where does it hurt?_

Instead, he straddles Bucky’s lap, his slim, strong body a warm weight, and he touches Bucky’s face again, leans in to brush his lips over Bucky’s before with such tenderness that Bucky thinks, maybe, he might prefer the string of worried questions.

Maybe.

Doubtful, though, he decides and returns the kiss. When he sighs, Steve pulls away and rests one hand on Bucky’s chest. His hips rock up against Bucky when he reaches for the soap and his skin flushes warm and pink down over his neck and shoulders, past his collarbones. When his hand falls from Bucky’s chest, Bucky rests his own at Steve’s hip, strokes his thumb down to the inside of his thigh.

“Oh, I missed you, Steve,” Bucky says. His voice is low and raw, and he knows there's too much feeling behind it, that he's missed Steve more than he can say, and it makes Bucky dig his fingers into Steve's hip. 

Steve looks back at him, tongue at the edge of his lips as he smoothes lather over Bucky’s face. “Me, too. Every time you leave, Buck.” He lowers his eyes, lashes dark and gold and too fucking pretty for this mundane moment, and then leans up to press a kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “Now: stay still.”

He leans back and Bucky tightens his hand at Steve’s hip. His right hand, warm and sure, and the left he lets rest along Steve’s side. The plates shift with a series of soft, metallic clicks, followed by the muted snick of the razor being opened.

The both still for a second, suspended, and the world is all angles and the faint echo of metal against metal. Bucky holds back another shiver, pushes back against the echo of a memory, and focuses on the way his palm curves around Steve’s hip.

“There,” Steve murmurs. He leans in close, watches Bucky for a moment, then angles the razor against his cheek when Bucky nods.

And there: yes, the clean, fresh scrape of metal against skin, sheer and sharp, the scent of soap and skin between them. Steve’s so careful, so fucking _careful_ and quiet about it, he won’t talk to Bucky, he barely breathes, his eyes narrow behind his glasses and his lips press into a damp line of concentration.

But that flush doesn’t disappear from his skin, and each time his slim hips rock up against Bucky, each time he presses closer, each time Bucky strokes his thumb over the inseam of his well-worn Levi’s, Steve's breath catches. The sound is small and throaty, barely there, but Bucky knows he’s half hard beneath those Levi’s, that he’s doing this as much for himself as he is for Bucky.

And Bucky needs this, they both need this, something sharp and clean and defined between them, something as simple as soap and hot water, as keen as desire, as elemental as breathing.

Steve leans in closer, closer, his head tips to the side, his blue eyes narrow, and he angles the razor to his the curve of Bucky’s upper lip, the divot in his chin, the long line of his jaw.

And then– _then–_

The man he loves has a knife at his throat and all Bucky can feel is raw gratitude and need.

By the time he’s finished, by the time Steve cleans the razor a dozen times over and has suppressed the shuddery need growing inside, Bucky’s already flicked the buttons on his fly open. With one fingertip, he pets the soft, dark blond hair beneath Steve's navel, catches the gasp from Steve's lips with his own.

“I knicked you,” Steve says. He presses his thumb to the edge of Bucky’s jaw, almost hard enough to hurt. “I don’t think it’ll bleed, though.” 

“I can barely feel it.” Bucky slides his hand closer, palms Steve until he’s hard and yearning against Bucky’s hand, until he finally lets himself shudder.

His fingers shake when he puts the razor back on the sink and shake still when he touches Bucky’s face again. Too careful, too–

No. Not too careful.

Clean and sharp. His blue eyes and gold lashes, the way his glasses slip down his nose, the way he leans in to kiss Bucky and the way his hands cradle Bucky’s jaw.

Just careful enough, then.

Bucky reaches up to slip Steve’s glasses from his face and to brush Steve’s hair out of his eyes. 

“It’s better when you do it for me. Even if I have to wait weeks until I come home.”

“But you came home. Thank god,” Steve breathes. He kisses Bucky again, then slips his hands down to unknot the towel at Bucky’s waist, to touch his skin and his stomach and to use his searching, curious touches to get Bucky hard, too. “Here,” he says, then, “no, no, bedroom…”

And Bucky would take him here, flushed skin and mussed hair, fingers tangled up in Bucky’s own still-damp hair, his keen little cries the only echo in the small room.

But he’ll do this, too: take him back to the bedroom, kiss his way down the stark line of Steve’s spine, press his check to the base of his spine and murmur gratitude and need against Steve’s skin, slide slick fingers inside him to hear that same gratitude, that need, echoed, magnified.

Bucky doesn’t say these things: _baby boy, I always come home, you’re all angles until you’re soft, and I will always come home to you._

But he does kiss the base of Steve’s spine and moves up his body to kiss the point of his shoulder, settles a hand at his hip and strokes the angle of his hipbone and the softness of skin, and presses into Steve with such painful (careful) slowness until he feels his own need build, until all he wants is to be inside Steve.


End file.
